


Not Like in the Movies

by queeniegalore



Series: Safeword Verse [4]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: BDSM, Belting, Bondage, M/M, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 03:51:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queeniegalore/pseuds/queeniegalore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad had just wanted to get a damn hotel. It’s not like his insurance wouldn’t have covered it, but as soon as he explained what had happened to Ray, Ray had practically dragged him over by the scruff of his neck. “A tree falls on my best friend’s house,” he’d said, “I’ve got to open my doors.”</p><p>Starts out Ray/Walt and ends up Brad/Ray/Walt. High on the bondage and spanking, etc. Originally commentfic, but they get longer as they go on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Like in the Movies

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not for profit, not true, no disrespect intended

Brad had just wanted to get a damn hotel. It’s not like his insurance wouldn’t have covered it, but as soon as he explained what had happened to Ray, Ray had practically dragged him over by the scruff of his neck. “A tree falls on my best friend’s house,” he’d said, “I’ve _got_ to open my doors.”  
  
Brad hadn’t really stood a chance, so he packed up a duffle, and headed on over. At least at Ray and Walt’s little two bedroom apartment he had a room to himself, even if he had to keep that information _to_ himself.  
  
Brad, of course, didn’t give a shit what they did in that other bedroom. He was a grown up, and besides, he wanted Ray to be happy. In his softer moments he had to admit that he liked seeing them together, like the way they were. They _worked_. Despite everything, they worked, clicking neatly together like puzzle pieces. Brad liked things to be neat.  
  
When Walt had started to show up with bruises, however…  
  
Brad knew it wasn’t anything like that, like Ray hurting him. One, it was Ray, and two if he ever tried Walt would fight right the hell back. It wasn’t like that. Whatever else they were, they were Marines.  
  
No, the bruises didn’t worry him. It was more like… Like what they meant made him worry about _himself_.  
  
~  
  
Ray worked as a mechanic in between semesters at college. He left earlier than Brad and Walt but got back earlier, too, normally had dinner cooking when they got home. Brad imagined it was what having a Marine wife would be like, felt strangely comfortable as he stepped into Ray and Walt’s cosy domestic routine. He and Walt started to carpool to base, stopped on the way home for beer, and when Ray called in a frenzy demanding fresh basil.  
  
“It’s good to know who wears the skirt in this relationship,” Brad said when he and Walt got in, thrusting the bunch into Ray’s chest.  
  
Ray shrugged it off. “You want to eat my pizza, you gotta work for it, Brad,” he said.  
  
Walt grinned. “And believe me, you wanna eat his pizza.”  
  
“My revered Italian grandma used to visit and teach me all the tricks from her homeland,” Ray added, heading back into the kitchen. “I can cook the shit out of a Margerita.”  
  
Brad rolled his eyes and handed Walt a beer. “Your grandmother was from New York.”  
  
“Yeah, exactly,” Ray called. “This shit is _authentic_.”  
  
Brad watched Walt slump down on the couch, yawning around his bottle of beer. He’d been doing it tough that last week, dive training, had almost fallen asleep in the passenger seat on the way home.  
  
His right sleeve was riding up.  
  
Brad looked away, flushing, swallowed some beer, but his eyes were drawn straight back to the bruises around Walt’s wrist, contrasting layers of marks, some long and thick, from a rope or belt maybe, others smaller, thumb prints from Ray grabbing and squeezing, pressing in until…  
  
“Brad.”  
  
Ray was standing in the doorway, a strange look on his face.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Shit there you are. You zoned out for a second there, buddy.”  
  
Brad blinked. “Just tired I guess,” he said lamely, shaking his head, and went in to set the table. As he pushed past Ray, he wondered for half a second whether they still used his name as their safeword. The thought made him go hot all over, flustered, and he pushed it back into the corner of his mind, let the pizza and beer and conversation take over.  
  
It worked for a while.

  
Later that night, Ray put on a movie at random and handed out plates of apple pie and ice cream. Brad sat in an armchair and looked at Ray and Walt munching away happily on the couch.  
  
“He always feed you like this?” he asked. “Shit, I know guys in the platoon who would kill for a little woman like Ray at home.”  
  
“They’d have to fight me for him,” Walt said sleepily.  
  
“Dude, I put a frozen pie in an oven,” Ray protested, but there was a little smile playing around his mouth. “Don’t put me up for housewife of the year just yet.”  
  
They’d been careful about not being too affectionate in front of Brad up until that point. It wasn’t like Brad cared – again, he liked them together – but despite Ray’s constant over-sharing, it seemed like they were trying to be sensitive about this, holding themselves back.  
  
Now, though, Walt started letting himself lean in closer and closer until Ray sighed and dragged him sideways across the couch, settling his head against Ray’s chest.  
  
“Don’t be a bitch and fall asleep before they get on the asteroid,” he said softly, fondly, under the sound of Bruce Willis ordering everyone around on the screen.  
  
“Wake me up when it’s the bit where you see Liv Tyler’s rack,” Walt muttered, and Ray stroked his hair.  
  
“As if I’d let you miss that.”  
  
Fuck. Brad’s heart was almost warmed. He fake-yawned, and, quietly excusing himself, went to bed.  
  
~  
  
The next night it was mixed berry crumble with fresh cream, an Arnie movie from the 80’s, and Ray and Walt on the couch again, breaking down whatever barriers they’d built up now that Brad had demonstrated he wasn’t going to freak out about it. They pressed close together, not holding hands or cuddling, but up in each other’s space, no longer trying to hide the intimacy. Their legs touched, they nudged and kicked at each other, Ray seemed to like touching Walt’s hair.  
  
And Walt’s sleeves had ridden up again, exposing his wrists. His bruises.  
  
Brad tried to study them casually, glancing over and then away, searching for new marks, new welts. He swept his eyes over them for a few seconds, then over to Arnie for a few more, then back to Walt. Yellow and purple and blue, plus a smattering of red scratch marks, like maybe Ray had been –  
  
Guns blazed on screen, people screaming, and Brad tore his gaze away, concentrated on the movie. The Predator was bleeding acid and under it, through it, Walt let out a soft sigh.

  
Brad flicked his eyes back over, and then away, feeling his cheeks go red. Ray had Walt’s hand in his lap and was rubbing his thumb over the pattern of bruises on his wrist, pressing it in. Walt had been sleepy again that night, had hardly made it through dinner, and Brad watched as he dropped his head back against the couch and closed his eyes, giving another soft sigh as Ray dug his thumb in. Walt left his hand open and relaxed in Ray’s grip, palm up and strangely tender, and out of nowhere Brad felt light headed with how much he _wanted_.  
  
He closed his own eyes for a second and when he opened them Ray was looking straight at him.  
  
Brad felt hot all over, felt like he’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He couldn’t look away, knew he should – really, really should – but _couldn’t_ , just kept staring at the two of them, Ray with his big eyes, Walt with his head still back on the couch, oblivious. And then Ray squeezed again, harder, hard enough that Brad could see Walt’s skin turn white, and Walt let out the smallest moan and Brad had to get out of there.  
  
“I’m going to bed,” he said abruptly standing up. Ray let go, and Walt opened his eyes slowly. His pupils were blown, he looked like Ray had been sucking his dick, not just pressing on a few bruises.  
  
“Yeah,” said Ray. “So are we.”  
  
~  
  
Brad heard them, that night. Not much, nothing specific, but enough. Low, murmuring voices for a long time, mostly Ray – he couldn’t make out words, just the timbre of his voice, rising and falling and then sinking into silence for a while. Brad thought maybe he heard a rhythmic thumping, but that could’ve just as easily been the beating of his own heart, fast and loud in his ears. He wondered. After a while, the voices started back up, lighter this time, a little louder, a bit of laughter. They were cleaning up, he guessed, settling down. There was a loud ‘dude!’ from Ray, and then more soft laughter, and then silence again.  
  
Brad didn’t know what he was going to do until he already had his hand gripping his dick. He stroked himself hard, fast, and the image in his mind, the image he hadn’t been able to get _out_ of his mind, was the ring of bruises on Walt’s wrist. He saw Ray gripping him again, Ray’s thumb pressing in, heard that little moan Walt hadn’t been able to keep in…  
  
He wanted _so bad_ to press his own thumbs into those bruises, grind them in, hear Walt moan for him. He wanted Ray to see him do it. Fuck, he wanted them to do it together, lay their marks on Walt, see how much he loved it. He bit his lip as he got closer, tried to picture what Ray and Walt had just done, how they’d done it. Had Ray tied him up? Held him down?  
  
Had he made Walt pick a safeword? Did Walt still use Brad’s name?  
  
“Oh, fuck,” he whispered and shot off, coming hard all over himself picturing Walt on his knees, blinking his sleepy eyes up at Brad while Ray tightened the belt around his wrists.


End file.
